an end has a start
by Ruadhnait
Summary: I don't think that it's gonna rain again today. Faramir, prophetic dreams, and the end of all things.


**an end has a start**

**A/N: **Gondorian brothers are my favorite brothers. Basically, I just like Boromir and Faramir a lot. This was originally meant to be a one-shot, but then I got lazy and decided to split it up into two chapters. The second chapter should be up within a week or so; if that doesn't happen y'all are free to send me angry PMs. (I need motivation, you guys.)

The title is taken from the Editors song of the same name.

Cookies to everyone who reviews :)

Faramir awoke suddenly and violently, sitting up straight in bed, soaked with sweat, breathing hard, and his heart pounding furiously as though he'd just been running. _Eru_, he thought, exhaling shakily and pushing his damp hair out his eyes, _what did I just dream about? _He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His lips were dry and his mouth tasted foul.

_I never have dreams_. This was true. If he ever dreamed, he usually forgot them before he woke, or else his visions were so murky and indistinct that they vanished like mist with the light of dawn. Faramir had pushed his blanket onto the floor during the night, and it lay on the flagstones in a crumpled heap. Even though he was sweating, he shivered; there was a cold wind flowing through the open window and causing the shutters outside to clatter loudly against the walls of the house. Lately, it had been unusually chilly for May. Groaning slightly, Faramir swung his legs over the side of his couch and picked up his blanket, throwing it back on the couch without bothering to fold it. He stood, still shivering, and walked over to the window and looked out. It was not yet dawn, but the sky was lightening in the east. The sun would rise soon, he suspected. Minas Tirith lay spread out before him, still silent and asleep, although the smoke of a few cook-fires drifted up in thin grey tendrils towards the sky.

His head was hurting. He could hardly remember his dream now, but he seemed to recall - _thunder, perhaps? Like the sound of the sea? And a light in the sky, a pale light _… though whether East or West, North or South, he could not recall. _It__'__s been years since I__'__ve been to Dol Amroth_, he mused, _it makes no sense that I should be dreaming about the ocean now_ …

Words. There had been words. A voice crying out in desperation. A prophet, maybe. Faramir did not care for prophets. _We have our fair share of doom criers in Minas Tirith_, he thought grimly. Just last week, his father had had to jail one bearded, barefoot, wild-eyed self-proclaimed priest for disturbing the peace. The man had stood in the streets of the Fourth Circle every day for weeks shouting of the evils to come, of the return of Sauron, of the utter ruin of Gondor and the death of Denethor and his sons. _We have no priests in Minas Tirith_, Denethor had told his counsellors afterwards; Faramir and Boromir had stood among them. _And we will have none_.

_I don__'__t need any priests to tell me that something is deeply, deeply wrong in Gondor. _Faramir shivered again, rubbing at the gooseflesh on his arms. _There__'__s something wrong with the entire world beyond Gondor, too_. He knew the cold weather came straight from the Dark Tower and the growing Shadow in the east. _And the sun seems dimmer, too _…

Faramir closed his eyes. _We__'__ve know for years that he__'__s returned. I__'__ve always lived under this shadow. My mother died from it. We know that Gondor is in terrible peril_. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to think.

Light in the sky. The West, perhaps? It would make sense. The men of Númenor had come over the sea from the land of the setting sun, all those thousands of years ago.

And a voice crying out. Faramir could only remember a few of the words, try as he might to recall them all. _Seek for the - sword, maybe? _"Seek for the Sword"? What sword? They had swords enough in Minas Tirith. He seemed to recall something Elvish, too, though whether Sindarin or Quenya, or what the word itself had been, he did not know.

_I don__'__t know_. Faramir turned away from the window. _Most likely it means nothing. It was a dream, no more_, he told himself firmly. The men of Gondor had enough burdens as it was; there was no need to pay attention to strange visions, signs and omens.

_Nothing more. Nothing more. Nothing more_.

Even in the early morning sunlight, Faramir could see the black clouds gathering in the east above Minas Morgul and Barad-dûr.

Faramir had no more dreams, prophetic or otherwise, until the twentieth of June, when Sauron attacked Osgiliath. Denethor had sent him and Boromir there some weeks ago with a large company of men from Minas Tirith to strengthen the garrison there and help beat back the assaults the Orcs often made on the city. These attacks, however, had been growing less and less frequent since the men from Minas Tirith had arrived; Boromir was certain that the Orcs had been defeated, at least temporarily. Faramir had been inclined to agree with him, too; they had all been eager for some heartening news in the constant struggle against the forces of Sauron. June 20, of course, proved them all decisively wrong.

Since his coming to Osgiliath, Faramir had been preoccupied with directing the re-fortification of the ruined and burnt-out sections of the city, which had always in the past provided easy routes for the Orcs to enter the city, and with arranging the distribution of the meager rations they had, which, despite the large amount of food Boromir and Faramir and their company had brought in their baggage-train, still was not enough to satisfy hundreds of hungry soldiers. These, and the countless other needs of a city at war, had kept Faramir so busy that the few hours of sleep that he was able to get were deep and dreamless; even so, when he awoke after two or three hours to face the next day, he was often as exhausted as though he'd been tormented by nightmares all night long.

The night of June 19 was clear and cloudless, with the thousands of stars tiny pinpricks in the velvety black sky. The moon had nearly reached its zenith when Faramir was finally able to sit down in a quiet corner of one of the abandoned houses that had been re-inhabited by the Gondorian soldiers, unbuckle his sword belt, and lean his head back against the stone wall and close his eyes. He was bone-tired; every muscle in his body ached, and his head was pounding dully. That day had been particularly hectic. Despite the soldiers working all day and into the night by the light of the moon and as many torches as they could spare, the fortifications around Osgiliath were still nowhere near as strong as they should have been. The city was just too _old_. It had been built in happier days; it was constructed to be a town from which people could freely come and go, unlike Minas Tirith, which had been built to keep its enemies out and withstand even the most brutal siege. And Osgiliath had too long been empty, as well; its walls were pitted and scored with holes; in places they were hardly more than a few charred stone piled on top of each other. The truth was that Osgiliath was bloody nigh impossible to defend, and it was only the sheer determination of Boromir and his men that kept it out of the hands of Sauron. Even so, it worried Faramir. It was too weak, too damn vulnerable to be their last foothold on the eastern side of the Anduin …

Faramir yawned. He was so _exhausted_. His head slipped down to his chest, and he could feel himself slipping away …

He awoke to find himself standing alone on a high bluff overlooking the tumultuous sea, the foam-crested waves dashing themselves madly against the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. Faramir could smell the salt-spray borne on the driving wind coming out of the west that was whipping his hair around his face and bending the tall clumps of heather and sea oats that dotted the ledge of the cliff. Across the wild grey sea, on the far western horizon, Faramir could see a pale light shining from behind heavy clouds, unlike the sun, the moon, or any sunset that he had ever seen. It was something entirely different, and all of a sudden, Faramir was inexplicably, horribly afraid. There was a noise of thunder coming from the east, and when Faramir turned his back on the sea, he could see black storm-clouds gathering on the eastern horizon, larger and darker than any he had ever seen swirling around Barad-dûr.

Faramir could hear a strange voice crying out, too, almost lost in the howling of the wind. The words were faint but somehow very clear, like a half-forgotten memory.

"Seek for the Sword that was broken

In Imladris it dwells

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand

For Isildur's Bane shall waken

And the Halfling forth shall stand."

_That Doom is near at hand __…_

Faramir's mind felt fuzzy and confused. _Doom. What do they mean by Doom __…_

The wind was howling more fiercely than ever. Faramir stumbled to his knees. It was so _cold_, and he could swear that there were voices on the wind, screaming and crying out frantically. He could hear them shouting, _Faramir! Faramir!_

"Faramir!" Someone was shaking him. He jerked awake to see Boromir standing over him, grim-faced, hastily pulling a shirt of steel chain-mail over his head. "They're here."

Faramir was on his feet in an instant, reaching for his sword belt and re-fastening it around his waist, fumbling around him for the rest of his armor. He could hear men shouting in the streets, horses whinnying frantically and stamping their hooves, the clanking of armor. Torches flared brightly in the darkness.

_We__'__re attacked_. From further off, Faramir could hear the fiendish yells of Orcs. _We__'__ll never stand. _He could feel the bleak dread of that realization clutching his heart like a cold fist.

They had both barely finished putting on their steel helms and breastplates when Boromir was sprinting out the door of the house, shouting "The bridge! To the bridge!" with Faramir close behind him.

All thought of prophetic dreams and everything else was swept from Faramir's mind, as he plunged into the thick of battle, borne away on that raging tide as he crossed swords with the hideous goblins surging across the bridge, a red haze filling his vision, and the sound of his own yells ringing in his ears.


End file.
